We shuffled out of the room, but before closing the door, I could hear her bangles ringing as her hands fell with defeat into her lap. Behind the closed office door, Dr. Altman gave us his three-word assessment: “She’s just crazy.”
I refreshed the page over and over again, thinking that a different number would magically appear instead, but it never did. I then picked up the phone to call my mom. I choked out the words, “I failed out of medical school.”
The night before my white coat ceremony in mid-September, I took a drive around Worcester to clear my head. The windows were down, and I could feel the breeze on my face as my car picked up speed along Route 9.
I tripped into the practice clinic room at 12:05 p.m., cradling my cold coffee and explaining to my preceptor that, despite being a first-year medical student, I did not own a stethoscope yet.
This house was once full of life / Layers of warmth and affection. / A fireplace, the heart of all
If gross anatomy has taught me any topics, they are the sheer beauty and capability of the human body.
Deeper than its captivating shape / lies a greater purpose.
After our first year of coursework, our LC mentors asked us to write a confidential letter to our “2016 self,” or ourselves at the time just before we began medical school. Right away, I recalled that at that time, I was a nervous wreck.
Second year? Could that be? It felt wrong. It threw off my whole identity. “I’m just a first-year,” had been my motto for the past twelve months.
Medical school hit me, and I mean it hit me hard. I would describe it as a boulder rolling down a hill straight towards me, multiplied by ten, and that is how scared and unprepared I was for my first few weeks of medical school.
It’s okay to feel in the cadaver lab. It’s what your first patient wanted for you.
The medical school recruiters and academic advisers had conveniently forgotten this detail during my educational overview when I originally signed up to be a physician.